Panic Monday
by mebh
Summary: Colonel Roy Mustang is sick and stressed and grumpy. With the pressure on, will this be a Monday where it's all just a bit too much for him. faint!roy hurty!roy lovely!breda royai
1. Chapter 1

_I deleted that other story because it felt a bit forced and Indiran deserves better. Here's approach number 2: more sleepy Roy, more hurty-boos, more team Mustang. Present for Indiran in thanks for a lovely gift she sent me. Likely a great many mistakes. Oops!_

 _This community is well quiet now, innit?!_

* * *

Fuery answered the telephone on the third ring. He used to be lightning fast; always grabbing the receiver on the first ring, but Breda had told him to chill out. The kid was showing the rest of them up. The sergeant finished the call, scribbling down the message then returning to his work: ostensibly finance in the morning papers, but really scouring the press for leads for the Elrics. Mustang had a roundabout way of looking after those brothers.

'Who was it?' asked Breda, absent-mindedly chewing his pen as he read the same sentence for the twentieth time that hour. Mondays were the worst.

Fuery coughed. 'Oh, just General Grumman's secretary checking if the colonel still planned on going across there this morning.'

Havoc looked up from the thick ledger in front of him, telltale dark circles of a big weekend's boozing under his blue eyes. 'I don't know, Kain. You might want to check with Hawkeye and see if she can move that meeting. The colonel looks pretty beat today.'

'You see him already, Hav?' asked Breda, surprised. The colonel's desk had been empty all morning.

'Yeah, he was here when I arrived this morning. He went out again around eight.'

Breda bit down on his pen thoughtfully. Mustang's staff took turns on the early Monday shift; ready to sign off the week's deliveries and urgent paperwork. Half five in the morning. Just you, the cleaner, and the weirdo self-groping courier who they had the good fortune to get nine times out of ten. If Mustang was here that early, it was likely he hadn't been home which in turn meant he'd probably spent his Sunday at the office. Gross.

'Damn,' mumbled Breda. 'Working or sleeping?'

Havoc shrugged. 'I don't know. Just sitting when I came in. Doing his Big Thinking.' He threw a thumb to the small table near the door where a sizeable stack of paper cups threatened to topple over at any minute. 'He's been keeping Little Fuhrer Coffee Co. in busy though.'

Fuery looked uneasy. He tore the page with the telephone message from his notepad. 'Should I call back and cancel? General Blithe will be with Grumman today, maybe the colonel doesn't want… Maybe I should cancel…'

Falman, who had scheduled the meeting, looked up from his work for the first time. He did not like cancellations or reschedulings, taking them as a personal affront to his organisational powers.

'Nah, let's see what Hawkeye says,' advised Breda, glancing at the clock. 'She's back any minute. I think Mustang wanted to meet with Blithe specifically.'

'Why check with the lieutenant and not the colonel?' asked Fuery. 'I mean, the colonel knows himself best, right?'

There was a beat of silence before Breda and Havoc burst into a small fit of laughter, the latter breaking into a noisy cough. Even Falman wore a little smile.

'Yeah, yeah,' said Fuery, getting back to the papers. 'I get it. I get it.'

OoO

'We're cancelling the meeting with Grumman and Blithe.'

Hawkeye was standing, arms folded, in front of Mustang's desk. In turn, the colonel sat, arms also folded, and mouth turned down in the most petulant pout south of Drachma.

'No,' he said. 'Not happening.' He sniffed noisily and dabbed at his red nose for the one-hundredth time since he returned from his early morning round of meetings. 'I have to take this opportunity to meet with Blithe. I need two generals' statements for the,' he sneezed and groaned, discarding one handkerchief and retrieving another from his pocket. 'For the Crew Foundation sponsorship money.'

'There are tens of generals you could ask,' Hawkeye said, patiently.

'Yeah, but Blithe vaguely likes me,' reasoned Mustang.

'You said you'd never met Blithe before though,' said Havoc.

The colonel answered with a shrug. _Exactly._

Unlike Falman and Fuery who worked with oblivious diligence in the tense atmosphere, Breda and Havoc observed the stand-off quite openly. Hawkeye was cool and seemed particularly certain that she would win this bout. Mustang on the other hand looked _terrible._ Havoc's hungover dark circles were nothing compared to Mustang's bruised looking and reddened eyes. The colonel's hair was unkempt, clinging to his neck and forehead which was damp with sweat. His skin was grey. Not in the 'oh he looks grey' way, but in the literal sense: grey. He already looked like he was going to vomit several times, and when he coughed it sounded pained and like he'd had it all weekend.

Whatever, right? People get sick; especially over-worked, over-thinking, over-achieving people like Mustang. Breda wouldn't have been quite so concerned only this was the third time he'd been in this condition in as many months. The brass were riding him hard; harder than they'd ever done so before, and it seemed like when they put the pressure on, Mustang put twice – three! – times as much on himself. The Elrics weren't helping matters. Mustang's last meeting with Grumman was interrupted when an urgent call came through saying that Fullmetal had destroyed a train station, and would East City HQ be able to kindly release repair funds at their earliest convenience, thank you very much. In an attempt to save his own budget (and reputation as Fullmetal's superior), Mustang went to the provincial station himself. Armed with chalk, he alchemically repaired the building almost single-handedly. Al called to apologise. Edward did not.

'Colonel, if it's a good impression you're interested in, then today is not the day to meet with Blithe and ask for monetary support. You look awful and sound like a spoiled brat. Snotty nose and all.'

Breda smiled into his coffee cup. Hawkeye was awesome.

Mustang sighed and hung his head for a moment. The room was very quiet. Only Falman's scratching pencil hurt the silence. After a time, Mustang turned his hands over so the palms lay open between them. When he looked up at Hawkeye, his face was open. Helpless.

'We need the money, Hawkeye.' He looked off to the side. Behind him, the East City sky looked about as miserable as he did. Those dark clouds threatened rain. 'If we don't get this special funding I'll need to crawl on my knees to Central begging for a budget revision. Fullmetal's killing me.' He leafed through some of the thin claim slips in front of him. 'These damages...'

There was that look again. The helpless one. The one that said, _Please don't make this harder for me, Hawkeye. I can't bear your worry too._

The lieutenant nodded once.

'Fuery,' she said, turning and smiling warmly at the young sergeant. 'Bring the colonel some coffee, would you please?' She walked towards Breda's desk, releasing a breath in one long, resigned sigh.

'You'll go along with him, Breda, won't you,' she said. She touched the edge of his desk with the forefinger of each hand. 'I want you to be the detail man. Do as much of the talking as you can. See if you can make "alchemical damages" sound a little more attractive.'

Breda 'bopped' her fingers with the top of his pen. 'Making the unattractive sound attractive is one of the key requirements of being Havoc's wingman. I've got this, Hawkeye.'

'Aw now. Come on,' Havoc complained, as the first lieutenant smiled her thanks and made her way back to her desk.

The office fell into a quiet lull again, save the industrious scratching of Falman's pen, and the tired sniffing and coughing of a poorly colonel.

* * *

One more chapter on its way!


	2. Chapter 2

_So it's been a while since I've written, and it's suuuuuper hard. Wow._

 _Anyway, this all got a bit gratuitous but I love a bit of hurty!Mustang as I'm sure anyone who's read my longer fics will know, so there we have it. Also, I've always enjoyed the notion that Grumman isn't as nicey, nicey as he seems but works with his own agenda, etc._

 _Anyway, Indiran: you're a legend. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Hawkeye walked them to the door. The others were working, doing a serviceable impression of people who didn't care about how bad their superior looked. Havoc was reading dozily, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, and Falman was chatting quietly into his phone. Only Fuery spared the occasional glance their way. While Breda gathered their coats, Hawkeye turned Mustang towards her by the shoulders. He looked at her pathetically.

'Oh, sir,' she said, smiling ruefully and placing the back of her hand to his forehead. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes.

Standing with their coats like a spare plum, Breda coughed as loudly and as awkwardly as he could to interrupt the pair. It was sweet how his superiors interacted when one of them was under the weather, but it was his longtime self-given duty to embarrass them as often as humanly possible. Lovey-doveyness of any form was to be aggressively mocked in the office, be it Mustang and Hawkeye, Havoc and Woman-Who-He-Scares-Off or Falman and his collection of pens.

Except Mustang didn't look embarrassed. In fact, he didn't open his eyes at all. If anything, he leaned further towards Hawkeye, forehead creased.

'Sir,' coaxed Hawkeye, pink cheeks flaring. She looked for a second like she might call the meeting off and march Mustang back to his – no, not in that way – bed herself. But at last, Mustang opened his eyes.

'Sorry,' he mumbled. He rubbed his temple, and looked stupidly around him for a couple of seconds. Where earlier, he at least looked like he was trying to prove he was well enough to meet with the generals, now he was barely succeeding in looking human.

'Sir,' Breda tapped his arm. 'Let's get this over with then maybe you should call it a day. You look rubbish.'

'Thanks Breda.' Tired eyes drifted towards him, and for the first time that day, Breda was genuinely, really, deep-down worried. He had never seen Mustang look quite so rough.

'Oh boy,' he muttered. He grabbed the man's elbow and tugged him towards the door. 'Come on, snotty,' he chuckled nervously.

With Mustang safely deposited in the corridor, Breda turned back to Hawkeye. He wanted to say something funny; make a little joke of the situation, but on seeing her worried brown eyes he managed nothing more than a baleful pursing of his lips and a half-hearted thumbs up.

'Thank you, Breda,' said Hawkeye, and with one final glance at Mustang stepped back into the office.

OoO

The meeting was not going well. Straight off the bat, Grumman was annoyed that Mustang hadn't brought Hawkeye along. Breda tried not to take it personally. Mustang explained that she was needed back in the office as Monday was their busiest day. Blithe jumped in asking Mustang why the rest of his staff weren't up to the job without the supervision of a first lieutenant. Again, Breda tried not to take it personally. Then as Mustang's voice began to crack and give, the general was livid that he'd personally come to request statements for the funding application when he was clearly unwell, thus putting the two aging generals at risk of getting sick themselves. When Mustang tried to couch the offense by saying he'd only wished to meet the man in person, Blithe had responded, ' _Well, you can rest assured that with_ your _reputation there is no personal introduction necessary.'_ That was something Breda took very personally indeed. Mustang was twice the man that wrinkly old potato was. Three times! Four!

Then there was the train station: the one Ed destroyed, well…

'My wife was unable to attend her rotary dinner dance in East City because of that fiasco. She was livid,' Blithe turned his red face to Grumman. 'Livid, she was.'

'I can only apologise for the conduct of my subordinate, sir,' Mustang said, carefully. His throat sounded like it was in shreds. 'He's really a very good. Just… He's young and – '

Blithe threw his hands up in the air. 'Well, that's the problem nowadays, isn't it? Too much power too young. I mean, you were a what in Ishbal? A major!? Ridiculous. You have more medals than most men my age; and for what? Barely any personal risk, standing on the sidelines and waving your magic wand. A major, indeed!'

Mustang coughed. 'It _is_ standard procedure for state alchem – '

'Never liked 'em myself. Alchemists. Too _free_ , too _reckless_. They don't know the _value_ of things.' Again, Blithe turned to Grumman who remained stony-faced and silent. Whatever story his eyes might have told was hidden behind his thick spectacles. 'One need only look at Kimblee. Absolute monster. It's unnatural.'

Breda risked a glance at Mustang who appeared visibly wounded by Blithe's words. A bead of sweat ran from the back of his ear and under his collar. He took a deep breath and choked on it, coughing into his cheeks. When he finally got his breath back he sneezed messily into the crook of his elbow. Oh God, he looked awful.

The general was horrified. Man, what was with this guy and a couple of germs!

'No, no,' said Blithe, waving his hands dismissively and getting to his feet. 'I couldn't possibly put my name to your request, Mustang. You don't even have the good sense to stay in bed with a 'flu like that. I would never recommend you for that prize fund. In fact, I shall have to make a call to the chairperson to inform them of your sloppy character.' He tapped Grumman's arm, and leaned in to whisper noisily, 'Wife said the colonel here did a horrible repair job on the station anyway. Window shutters were never red. Amestrian green and white. Always. He forgot the little pillbox by the gate too.'

Breda stood up sharply. 'Okay,' he drawled, offering his hand to the general and hoping to bring things to a close. Blithe was aghast at his forwardness, but 'sloppy' was a step too far for Breda. The only person on the planet with any right to call Mustang of all people _sloppy_ was Hawkeye. Maybe Falman. Maybe. But he had terrible taste in music which was a sloppiness of character that could not be overlooked.

When Blithe ignored him, Breda shoved his hand into the man's personal space, forcing him to take it. 'Clean hands here, General. You won't catch any sniffles from me. I know when you're, eh, more mature you have to be careful.'

Either the general didn't catch the insult or didn't care. Ignoring Mustang entirely, he stood and nodded his 'good bye' to Grumman. 'I'll see you at the hotel bar later, Grumman. Sorry to cut this meeting short, chap. Can't stand arrogance or incompetence, especially when they come as a two for one deal.'

He left without closing the door behind him. If the old codger was as relaxed about colds as he was about manners, that meeting would have gone a lot smoother. Or maybe not. A lot of the old-timers hated Mustang like it was going out of fashion. Because he was young. Because he was good. Because he reminded them of how terrible they were…

 _Because Mustang wants it that way_ , Breda told himself, imagining how the privately quiet man would swan around headquarters like he was already Fuhrer; laughing with a laugh that wasn't his, talking with ideas that weren't his. Shaking hands and sharing drinks with people he'd rather see behind bars. Letting them talk about Hawkeye the way they did and apologising to her the entire car journey home. Telling Alphonse Elric again and again (because Ed never called to say sorry), "It's fine, kid. It's fine. I can cover that. I can fix that. I can do that." I, I, I. Me. Because I'm the only Flame Alchemist. I'm the only Hero of Ishbal. I'm the only asshole with even the outside possibility of changing the way things are. _How does Hawkeye watch him do this again and again?_

Breda was about to close the door behind Blithe when Grumman cleared his throat. 'Leave it open, lieutenant. The colonel will be leaving presently.'

'Oh,' said Breda. 'Y-yes, sir.' This wasn't like Grumman. In fact, the general had been strange with Mustang from the start. Aside from the matter of an absent Hawkeye, he was cagey; like he didn't want to seem too close to Mustang. Like Mustang embarrassed him.

'I'm sure you're disappointed I didn't defend you more, Mustang,' he said, tenting his fingers in front of him.

The colonel blinked slowly and shook his head. 'No, sir. I understand. It's me who should apologise.'

 _No_ , thought Breda _. He let you down, Mustang._

'I'm under a lot of pressure from Central at the moment. I was hoping I could count on you to be your usual jolly self. Then you come here looking like death warmed up _and_ with a request for money you didn't run past me first. Perhaps with some warning, I could have helped you…,' Grumman trailed off, opening his hands in a weak surrender. 'No, Blithe is a tough man, but an ally I respect and one we _both_ need, you understand? I'm very disappointed, Mustang. I can't lie to you: I'm not happy with your performance today. Unprofessional. Sloppy.'

Mustang bowed his head.

To his credit, it didn't seem like Grumman enjoyed speaking to Mustang that way. Not like some of the other brass did. Breda thought he might say something else, something kinder, but Grumman was finished. He gestured to the door. 'You are dismissed, colonel Mustang.'

Ever so slowly, the colonel stood. 'Thank you, sir.' His voice was barely there at all. He took one step then stopped.

'That will be all, Mustang.' Grumman had already turned back to his work.

But the colonel wasn't going anywhere. He just brought his hands to his face and stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

'Huh?' Breda thought Mustang was taking his seat again. But he wasn't. He was falling.

It almost looked comical, how the usually graceful man's collapsing legs carried his torso forward.

'Woah, woah, woah!' Breda cried, racing to try to catch him.

But he wasn't fast enough. The side of Mustang's head connected with the corner of Grumman's desk with a too-loud _crack!_ He fell sideways, his hand dragging masses of files and paper on top of himself. A lamp crashed to the ground, fizzing and going out. Grumman rushed to his feet.

'Colonel Mustang!' he cried, alarmed.

Breda was kneeling at Mustang's side in a beat, horrified at how pale he suddenly looked. If he was grey before, now he was bone-white. The lieutenant couldn't see clearly through the colonel's mass of hair, but it didn't look like he was bleeding at least.

'I'll call an ambulance,' the general said, reaching for his phone.

'No!' Breda said, feeling more panicked than he thought himself capable. Still, Hawkeye had them well drilled: _They can never see_ Roy _. They'll tear him to pieces. We have to maintain the Flame Alchemist's image at all costs._ 'No, no ambulance. He won't want that. Just, eh, call Hawkeye.' He remembered himself. 'Eh, please. Sir.'

Grumman looked like he was about to argue, but instead he tottered back behind his desk and began dialing the office.

'Mustang, you dumb-dumb,' Breda said gently. He alternated between patting Mustang's cheek and parting hair clumped together with pomade and sweat, checking for any wound. A sizeable bump was forming. Shifting to sitting, he hoisted Mustang back until his head lay against his crossed legs. His long, pale neck looked altogether too vulnerable to belong to such a man; how his Adam's apple and network of veins seemed to invite the knife, the bullet, the grip of enemy hands… Some catastrophe that would take him from them and ruin everything. 'Hey. Hey. Why'd you have to work so hard, you dummy?'

Grumman had finished his call and moved round to the colonel's feet. His expression was unreadable as he stared down at the colonel. Breda hoped he felt terrible. He almost wanted to say it _: Don't you feel terrible, you hopeless idiot?'_ But he didn't. He didn't because Mustang wouldn't have, and Hawkeye wouldn't have. But by God it was hard to control himself.

Grumman was at the door, opening it a crease and waiting anxiously for Hawkeye to arrive.

'Breda,' Mustang's voice was thick with exhaustion. He sounded drunk.

'Hello, sir,' Breda chuckled, and looked down.

The colonel stared up at his lieutenant with eyes like wetted flint. 'I can't do it, Breda. Can't even… Just a cold, and I can't… It's not me. I just can't…' A deep breath shuddered through his thin back and straight into Breda's shins. The colonel threw an arm over his eyes. He might have sobbed, or maybe it was a cough. It was probably a cough.

'Come on, stupid,' Breda said. 'You're the only one. If it's not you it's nobody.' That was about the worst thing Breda could have said. But it was true. Sometimes he hated the man for making them need him so much. He took Mustang's hand and lifted his arm from his eyes. He wanted to show Mustang that he could do it, that he _was_ the leader Amestris needed, but he was already out cold again.

OoO

Hawkeye rubbed a thumb across a sleeping Mustang's cheek then stood. He'd been in and out of consciousness since they left Grumman's office and smuggled him out of headquarters. His fever had sky-rocketed since that morning. He'd trembled against Breda as they'd staggered and tripped down flight after flight of stairs, using the service access. After a quick check-up with a private doctor, he was advised to rest. The doctor wrote him a line for a week, Hawkeye asked her to change it to two days.

She pulled the lamp's chain and threw the small bedroom into darkness. She smiled to Breda waiting at the door. She was always doing that. Smiling at them like she was sorry. He didn't really know what it meant. But it always made her look especially sad.

'Hey, Hawkeye,' Breda said, quietly. 'Why'd you only give him two days? He could really use the week, you know. He was shaking all the way here. I was virtually carrying him.'

The lieutenant put a finger to her lips and ushered him out the door in front of her. She was starting to look not so fresh herself. Breda thought she was going to defenestrate Grumman when she heard how he'd spoken to Mustang. Now she just looked worn out. All that rage bled out of her as quickly as it had come.

She continued to guide Breda to Mustang's small settee where they both sat, shoulders slumping and heads buzzing from vanished adrenalin.

'He doesn't do well with too much time to himself,' she explained.

Breda wasn't convinced. 'He _fainted._ All this,' he waved his hand around, searching for the right words. 'It's _hurting_ him, Hawkeye.'

The lieutenant studied her hands. She looked like Mustang did when Blithe called Kimblee a monster. Like an old wound had opened up deep, deep inside her.

'I know,' she said. She looked at Breda, face helpless.

 _Just like Mustang looks at her when he knows how bad it is._

'It's just,' Breda said. 'Do you ever wonder if it's worth it?'

Hawkeye nodded. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her thumb. She breathed an upset, _yes._

'So…' Breda pressed. 'Why do you do it? Why are we doing this?'

Hawkeye looked at him as if he'd just asked why night follows day or why the grass is green.

'Because he asks us to,' she said.

She didn't need to say anything else.

* * *

 _Blooooooop! Thanks!_


End file.
